


Trixie Belden and the Birthday Surprise

by vanillafluffy



Category: The Three Investigators | Die drei ??? - Various Authors, The Trixie Belden Mysteries - Julie Campbell Tatham & Kathryn Kenny
Genre: Birthday Presents, F/M, Family Feels, Family Fluff, Family of Choice, Food, Food as a Metaphor for Love, Food snob ahoy!, Found Family, Gen, Shopping, Surprises, good deeds
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-24
Updated: 2018-06-24
Packaged: 2019-05-27 14:59:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15027143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vanillafluffy/pseuds/vanillafluffy
Summary: Trixie's been a good sport, so her friends and family conspire to do something nice for her. For once, the intrepid young detective doesn't have a clue!





	Trixie Belden and the Birthday Surprise

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Brumeier](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brumeier/gifts).



> For the prompt, "A day in the life"....

Trixie’s birthday is less than a week away, and there’s a conspiracy afoot. It’s Jupiter’s idea, but everyone is in on it: Mart, Ben and Jupe’s aunt and uncle. Trixie doesn’t suspect anything when Mathilda Jones asks her at the end of the day if she’d mind coming in tomorrow.

“Tomorrow? Tuesday?” The salvage yard is closed on Tuesdays, so it’s a surprising request.

“I wanted to reorganize some displays, and it’s so much easier to get things done when the place isn’t knee-deep in customers.” Jupiter’s aunt smiles. “You’d be on the clock, of course, with a little bonus for, oh what do they call it, shift differential?”

Trixie is chronically strapped for cash; she sees dollar signs. “Sure, Mrs. Jones. I’d be happy to.”

“Lovely. How early can you be here?”

“Just as soon as I’ve fed the chickens--say eight o’clock?”

“I’ll see you bright and early, then.”

When she arrives at Jones Salvage Yard at 7:52 a.m.. Mrs. Jones invites her to breakfast with her and Uncle Titus. There’s a tempting array of muffins on the kitchen table, and Trixie inhales the fragrance of bacon cooking. She glances toward the hallway. 

“He’s not here,” Titus Jones says mildly, correctly interpreting her look as hoping to see Jupiter.

“Titus, you big ox!” Mathilda is exasperated but tolerant of him in the way of long-married couples. “Jupiter took the truck to make a delivery and said he had some things he wanted to do afterward. I don’t know when he plans to be back.”

Trixie is disappointed, but thinks she conceals it well. Is there something just a little too pat about Aunt Mathilda’s explanation? she wonders. Is Jupe avoiding her for some reason? (It’s hard not to think of her as Aunt Mathilda, since that’s how Jupiter refers to her.) Still, Mr. and Mrs. Jones are friendly and breakfast is good, so she sets her focus on doing whatever Mrs. Jones wants done to the very best of her ability.

At roughly the same time this scene is being enacted, Jupiter is pulling up into the driveway at Belden Farms in the salvage yard’s work truck, which is loaded down with materials. Following him in their own similarly laden pick-up are Hans and Konrad, the brothers who work at the yard.

Mart Belden comes out to greet them. “Trixie doesn’t suspect a thing!” he chuckles. “Last night she was voluble in rhapsodizing about the potential remuneration to be acquired for her extracurricular services.”

Jupiter eyes him. Mart’s exhaustive vocabulary is, well, exhausting. Worse, it reminds him of himself at a slightly younger age, trying to be impressive and appear older and more worldly. At the same time, it’s fun to have someone he can engage in baroque dialog with.

“While your esteemed sibling is renowned for her loquacity, she is formidable in her industry; it will doubtless enhance her productivity to be billeted in commodious circumstances,” he volleys back. “Should we pull around back, or is the ground too soft?”

“Carry on!” Mart grins.

When the Belden siblings had first arrived at the orange grove, Mart bought, Trixie had been okay with sleeping on the sofa, particularly after the ancient one that came with the dome was replaced with a much newer and more comfortable one from Jupiter. 

Mart staked out the loft as his sleeping quarters, but when Ben arrived to share it with him, Trixie retreated to an air mattress on the floor of the old mud room out back, citing noise issues. For the last two months, she’s been living out of her suitcase and the boxes of her stuff forwarded to her from Crabapple Farms. Despite the inconvenience, she hasn’t complained, and now her brother and Jupiter have made plans to do something about the situation.

After a yummy breakfast, Trixie is ready to go to work in the salvage yard, but Mrs. Jones has other ideas. On Saturday, someone had dropped off a dressmaker’s dummy, and first thing on the agenda is, they’re going to take it over to a friend of hers who is always looking for dummies or mannequins to display clothes on in her secondhand store.

Trixie is perfectly agreeable--she’s getting paid for it, after all.

The dressmaker’s form is unwieldy, and she doesn’t blame her employer for not wanting to wrestle it single-handed. Maggie, who owns The Wardrobe of Wonder is delighted with her new acquisition. 

The Wardrobe of Wonder has bay windows with display platforms on either side of the front door, featuring mannequins wearing chic ensembles accessorized with just the right bag or scarf. Although she’s never been much of a clotheshorse, Trixie has begun to realize that there are some gaps in her wardrobe--having to borrow an outfit to visit the FBI in had shown her that! Looking around the shop, she admires some of the items on display while Mathilda and Maggie chat. 

She’s checking the size on a soft blue dress--three sizes too big, rats, rats, rats!--when, to her total astonishment, Mathilda climbs into the window and starts dismantling one of the forms.

Trixie hangs the disappointing dress back on the rack and goes over to ask, “Are you going to try that on? It’s a pretty color.”

“No, sweetie. It’s just time to switch out the displays. Here, hold these--” She starts piling Trixie’s arms with the arms from the mannequins. It’s a little surreal.

Maggie comes over with an armload of items. “I thought maybe we could do something for prom or wedding season, something like that? I have a ton of formals I need to move, and that’s either spring or the holidays, and I can’t wait for December!”

“Show me,” says Mathilda, and Maggie starts holding up dresses. Apparently, there are even more in the back, and they two women go to look at them. Trixie starts prowling the racks again, but that doesn’t last long.

“Trixie! Come try this on!”

She’s on the clock, she reminds herself. There are worse things to do on a paid day off than try on clothes--even if it’s silly formalwear she has absolutely no use for. 

The dress they’ve picked is a little longer than ankle-length, but to Trixie’s relief, it isn’t too long--she isn’t stepping on it when she walks, which is one reason she’s never liked long dresses. It’s sleeveless with a scooped neckline and gathers under the bust to drape gracefully in figure-skimming folds. The fabric is makes her think of the blue and white Delft china her old friend Mrs. Vanderpoel has, and best of all, it’s cotton, not something fussy like silk or satin.

Playing dress-up is definitely not a bad way to spend a paid day off, although there aren’t many things in her size that don’t drag on the ground. Trixie is comfortable with her size, but it does have its disadvantages!

Meanwhile, the work crew at Belden Farms has been cheerfully demolishing the interior of Trixie’s room. Her possessions are safely in the living room, and the splintered racks, shelves and countertops are being yanked out and plans are taking shape.

Konrad is handiest at plumbing, and his first task has been to evaluate the possibility of giving Trixie a small half-bath. “I think we can do it, Jupe,” he proclaims. “I ran water through the outflow and it seems to be draining okay. I can split the inflow, run a line to the new sink and one to the toilet--I don’t know how great the water pressure would be, and it would only be cold water. Hot water, that would be kinda complicated.”

“How does the roof look, Hans?” Jupe asks. 

Hans is less talkative than his brother. “Good thing we’re doing it now. It’s worn out for sure.” 

“Okay, you and Mart work on the roof. There should be plenty of insulation on the truck. Summer’s nearly here, and she’s liable to be broiled under this old tin roof if we don’t do something about it.”

“Fricassee ala Trixie,” Mart quips cheerfully. “I take it you gents will be enabling abultions for the mademoiselle?”

“Konrad will. I’m going to put in insulation and drywall between the wall of the dome and this room. Whoever added this on to the original structure didn’t do a very good job; I can see water damage. While you’re up there, caulk that seam thoroughly--I made sure to bring plenty of caulk!”

Everyone gets to work, and Trixie would be astonished to know at the perspiration being expended on her behalf as she’s helping Aunt Matilda ‘dress’ the shop windows.

“When you said we were going to be doing some rearranging today, this wasn’t quite what I pictured,” Trixie ventures as she hands her employer one of the mannequin’s arms.

“Maggie and I have an agreement--I change out her windows ever other month, and she lets me pick out goodies for my wardrobe in exchange. And we keep an eye out for things that would suit each other’s inventory.”

“Like the dress form,” Trixie nods.

“Exactly. And I have to confess--” Mathilda pauses to re-pin a strand of greying hair. “I love Titus to death, and I love the salvage yard, but there’s only so much you can do with it.”

“I don’t follow you,” Trixie responds cautiously.

“Oh, you’re going to laugh, but I came out to California--to Hollywood! as a starry-eyed kid….”

“To be in the movies?” Even though she’s seen pictures of Mathilda as a young woman, it’s difficult to picture her as an ingenue.

“Yes, but not the way you’re probably thinking.” Aunt Mathilda makes a pretense of choosing between a long sage dress or a tea-length floral for the next mannequin. “Most girls come out here wanting to be actresses. I wanted to be a production designer.” 

She picks up the floral and slides it over the top of the molded plastic body. “I grew up on a dairy farm outside Sheboygan, Wisconsin. I was the only girl of eight children--” Trixie looks horrified, and she nods. “That’s right. And since I was the third oldest, I got to take care of the younger ones once I was eight or so. As you can imagine, with all those kids and a working farm, my mama didn’t have a lot of energy left for housekeeping, beyond mopping the floors and dusting away the cobwebs. I always wanted things to be pretty, but ‘pretty’ doesn’t last long in a house full of boys--they don’t call it ‘roughhousing’ for nothing.

“When the other children at church were clamoring to be in the annual Christmas pageant, I was begging to be allowed to paint the backdrops and set up the scenery. I could make it as pretty as I wanted! I used to dream about it all year long, and draw pictures of how I wanted it.” There’s a wistful smile on her face at the memory. 

She carefully threads the dummy’s plastic arm into the capped sleeve, taking pains that the fabric isn’t caught between the arm and the shoulder. “Now, being the only girl, I was the only one who had a room to myself. It wasn’t much bigger than a broom closet, but it was mine. My next-younger brother, Jonah, found an old black and white TV somewhere, and brought it home and snuck it into my room, because he was in with the two oldest boys, Hayes and Curtis, and they would have monopolized it if he’d tried to have it in there.”

“Did your folks mind?” Trixie asked, because she’s trying to imagine her parents’ reaction to her having something like that. No way, she decides. Television wasn’t a Thing at Crabapple Farms. If there was time after schoolwork and chores, outdoor sports were encouraged.

Mathilda ties the scarf tightly around the dummy’s neck as if she wants to strangle it. “Don’t get me wrong. My parents kept us all well-fed and saw to it that we went to church and got an education and weren’t walking around in rags. Not so much because they cared about us as human beings, but so that we’d be healthy and they’d have help working that damn farm.” She loosens the scarf and gives the dummy an apologetic pat. “No, they didn’t care about the TV as long as it didn’t disturb them and as long as I didn’t stay up and be too tired to do my share of work. Let me tell you, when I left home, I said to myself I was never going back, and I never have!”

Trixie can’t imagine rejecting Crabapple Farms, or her family, but the way Mathilda describes her childhood, she can’t blame her for feeling that way. “When did you leave?”

“I had just turned eighteen a few weeks before…I was in my senior year of high school, and I’d been saving every little bit of spending money I got, all the cash gifts from birthday and Christmas cards from my aunts and uncles and grandparents for years. Nobody knew how much I had, not even Jonah, but it was two hundred ten dollars.” She’s busily outfitting the final mannequin with the sage dress. “I made up an excuse about needing money for the senior class trip to Chicago--they were going to let me go, because my grades were so good--and I didn’t feel bad about the lie, telling myself I’d earned that sixty dollars, that considering all the time I spent baby-sitting and doing chores, it worked out to about two cents an hour. I skipped school, hopped on a Greyhound bus going west and didn’t look back!”

“Wow.” Trixie is impressed by her daring. Aunt Mathilda has always seemed so sedate and domestic; this is a side she’s never even suspected.

“Oh, it wasn’t nearly as thrilling as it probably sounds. Mercy! I was scared to death.” Her laugh wobbles a bit but she shakes off the moment in favor of securing the dress with a wide, white patent-leather belt.. “I was from the farm-belt--I wasn’t used to big cities, and it seemed like everything just kept getting bigger and bigger. Not just the cities, but the space-- I spent three days riding buses to get here, and there were miles and miles of nothing but farms and ranches. The Rockies took my breath away. I thought Denver was gigantic, and when I got to Los Angeles, oh my! It just got bigger and bigger, and then we stopped at the bus station, which was at the middle of everything. At least you got to fly!”

“At least you didn’t get off a plane and have to drive on that freeway!” Trixie retorts without thinking. “Oh gosh, I’m sorry, Aunt Mathilda--I mean, Mrs. Jones.”

“You may as well call me Aunt Mathilda,” the older woman says with a smile, “especially now that you’ve heard my life story.”

“But that’s not all of it!” Trixie exclaims in dismay. “You were younger than I am when you got here! What happened with production designing? How did you meet Uncle Titus?”

“Are you sure you aren’t humoring an old lady?” She hangs a contrasting color wristlet on the display. “What do you think, this, or the pink?”

“The pink,” Trixie’s fashion opinions are somewhat tentative, but she’s pretty clear on this one. “goes with the pink in the print. The blue doesn’t look right.”

Aunt Mathilda holds up the other bag, then switches it for her original choice. “Good call. Let me just finish up this window, kiddo, and we’ll go get lunch. It’s funny how spilling your guts can make you hungry and thirsty. I’m voracious, as that nephew of mine would say.”

At the moment, her nephew has a mouthful of sheet-rock nails and is hammering away, securing the last panel on the inner wall of Trixie’s room. Work is progressing better than he expected, but at that moment, Konrad straightens up from where he’s been crouched installing the new plumbing.

“Little problem here, Jupe--it looks like the old sink leaked and caused some water damage. I don’t think this old flooring is strong enough to support the commode like it is. If we have any extra plywood, I can lay it over what’s there, and I’ll make damn sure nothing leaks.”

Jupiter frowns. “We should. Check and see if there’s anything left from the roof. The space is only three-and-a-half feet by six-and-a-half.”

He finishes nailing the panel in place. The flooring issue is going to bugger the timing a little--after completing this task, his plan was to frame in a wall to enclose the loo--which he can’t do until the plumbing is in and confirmed functional. He’ll build it in sections, he decides, so it can go up as soon as the space is ready. 

Konrad comes back in, carrying two partial sheets of plywood. “I can piece these together,” he says with satisfaction. “This one is big enough to cover most of the space, I’ll cut the outflow for the toilet there, and this will cover the rest. That wall-mounted sink was a good idea, a big time saver, thank God it wasn’t a pedestal.”

Jupe is double-checking the measurements for the height of the lowest side of the sloping roof when Ben emerges carefully from the inner door, looking both ways before leaving the safety of the kitchen. “I was just going to call Mart,” he mumbles awkwardly. “I made lunch, if you guys are hungry.”

“Thanks. I’m voracious!” Jupiter replies. He and the individual formerly known as ‘Skinny’ Norris have buried the hatchet, at least in theory, but it’s difficult not to hold some of their history against him. 

“The sink works, if you want to wash your hands,” Konrad offers with a broad smile.

“I think I’d better find a sink with some soap,” Jupe says wryly.

Ben comes in through the back door in time to hear him. “We’ve got a couple extra bottles in the pantry--I’ll get one. After all, Trixie is going to need soap in here anyway, right?”

Mart comes in, followed closely by Hans, and they end up all standing in line and washing their hands over the basin in the almost-bathroom. Everything drains and nothing leaks; Konrad preens. It’s a tribute to his plumbing skills, he announces over their ham and turkey sandwiches.

Jupiter is glad to hear things are going well on the roof. The floor reinforcement is the only problem so far, and Konrad seems to think it’s trivial. If he can complete the framing, maybe hang drywall on it before raising it, while Konrad is doing the flooring and installing Milady’s throne, he can….

“Earth to Jupiter!” Mart drawls. “Still with us?”

“Sorry,” Jupe shakes his head. “Merely contemplating the logistical necessities of project completion.”

“Elucidate, dear colleague.”

Explaining so everyone will understand, Jupiter elucidates. “Because of the placement of the sink and toilet, the door is going to have to be in the middle, so that means building a panel on either side and framing in the door. I’m simply thinking of the most efficient way to go about it.”

Looking down at his plate, Ben asks, “Does there have to be a door right away? I mean, it’s her private bath, that’s kind of the point. But if things are down to the wire at the end of the day, maybe just nail up a curtain until there’s time to put in a proper door…?”

“Good point.” Jupiter is determined to be fair and not let their old antagonism cloud his judgement. And it’s a reasonable temporary solution. “The wall sections should come together pretty easily, but I’ve never framed a door before.”

“Or…they’re kind of beat up, but there are a bunch of old shutters out in the barn. Some of them still have hinges on them. Maybe there’s a way to use those.”

Hans looks puzzled. “Shutters? Shutters are for a house, not a thing like this!” He waves a hand to indicate the dome.

“The old guy that owned this place before me was a serious packrat,” Mart explains. “Trixie cleaned out the barn when we first got here and pitched a ton of stuff--literally! If she kept those shutters, she must have liked them. There’s an ornate bedstead of antique vintage out there, too.”

“Okay, then! When we get back to work, Ben, if you’d go out to the barn and bring me enough shutters to cover a 30-inch wide space, we’ll be all set.”

“Will do!” Ben shoots him an excited smile.

“Don’t wear him out too badly,” Mart says to Jupe in a broad aside. “I’m going to need him tonight to massage my aching muscles.”

“Too bad.”

Sandwiches around the kitchen table are a far cry from Trixie’s lunch with Aunt Mathilda. She’s heard the phrase “ladies who lunch”, but she’s never understood it until this afternoon--Sleepyside on Hudson is not that kind of place. 

The Rosedrop Cafe is housed in Rocky Beach’s historic district. It has an old-fashioned tin ceiling, its tiles tinted faintly pink. A chandelier sparkles with dangling crystals, and there are similarly lavish sconces at intervals around the room atop wallpaper printed with lace and cabbage roses. The place is dripping with lace, it seems like. It exudes nostalgia and class.

Trixie was in the mood for a tuna melt sandwich, but there’s no such thing on their menu. Salad seems to be the speciality of the house. There are a few sandwich options, but nothing as filling as, say, a hamburger. And the prices! She reminds herself that that probably means the staff is earning a living wage, which is a good thing, but on the other hand, she doesn’t want to take advantage of Aunt Mathilda’s generosity.

Aunt Mathilda shifts the bud vase with its single pink rose to one side. “I’m going to have the Chicken Orientale,” she tells Trixie, “but try whatever you like--this is all part of the budget, you’re not going to eat me out of house and home, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

The menu is written in a fancy font with a lot of loops and swirls. She’s starting to feel anxious, which doesn’t help her dyslexia. Finally, she selects at random something called the Wilderness Salad.

“I’ve had that, it’s very nice,” Aunt Mathilda agrees when they’ve given the server their orders. “And so are you, for giving up your day off to help me at Maggie’s.”

“Oh, sure.” Trixie takes a sip from the goblet of ice water beside her place, trying to think of the most tactful way to ask Aunt Mathilda about her youthful adventures in L.A.. After all, she’s been accused more than once of being nosy.

“You could just say something along the lines of, ‘I’d be interested in hearing more if you don’t mind telling me’,” Aunt Mathilda suggests, her eyes dancing. 

“Am I that transparent?” Trixie asks in dismay.

“Dear, I’m more or less three times your age--I have learned a thing or two about people in that time. And while I haven’t known you for very long, Trixie, I do know that you are a young woman of tremendous resolve and follow-through.”

“Aunt Mathilda, I’d love to hear more about your adventures if you wouldn’t mind….” 

“L.A. wasn’t quite as dangerous as it is today, but it was still pretty wild, especially for someone as sheltered as I was.”

“What year was this?”

“1979.” She smiles nostalgically. “Jimmy Carter was in the White House, disco ruled, and for me, it was like landing on another planet.” 

“I understand that feeling!” Trixie agrees fervently. “What happened when you went looking for something in production design?”

“As you’d expect:I didn’t even have a high school diploma, much less experience or useful skills. I was just another hick from the sticks, with no references whatsoever, no portfolio--and saying, ‘But I designed the scenery for our Christmas pageant’ was about as useful as saying, ‘I know how to milk a cow!’--I couldn’t get a foot in the door anywhere. I tried to get a store job, so I could do displays, anything to get experience--but I didn’t have the right kind of clothes, and I couldn’t afford to get any.”

“That’s awful! What did you do?”

“I managed to get a job as a dishwasher--one thing I did know how to do--and I had a room by the week at a down-on-its-luck dive motel. I couldn’t afford the deposits on a better place, and the cost of the room meant I couldn’t save anything up. I was stuck--”

Their orders arrive. Trixie studies the Wilderness salad, which has bacon-wrapped asparagus spears atop a mound of mushroom rice accompanied by wilted spinach. It’s not what she thinks of as a salad, but with all that bacon, how bad can it be?

“After weeks doing dishes, they tried me as a waitress. That gave me a little more money, thanks to my share of the tip jar. A couple weeks after that, I went to get a man’s order and he smiled up at me, the most beautiful smile--the most beautiful big, strong man I’d ever seen. He ordered a cup of coffee and a slice of lemon meringue pie. He asked for my number, and I didn’t even think about not giving it to him. When I explained that it was a motel, he said, ‘Aw, no, that’s not right!’, and the next thing I knew, I had taken off my apron and clocked out, not thinking twice about it--hell, not even thinking! And that was how I met Titus Jones.”

Trixie is enthralled. “That’s the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard!” she breathes.

“Only because you know how the story turned out. Considering how many loonies L.A. has hosted, I’m lucky I didn’t wind up in a shallow grave out in the desert. How’s your salad?”

“Delicious. I wonder if I could make it at home? This risotto stuff seems kind of like Rice-a-Roni with a cream sauce.” The server who is refilling their goblets chokes slightly, but Trixie doesn’t notice. “We’ve got asparagus and spinach in the garden, although…hi--what kind of mushrooms are these, do you know?” she asks the server.

“Those are portobellos, madame,” is the response. The server departs, and Aunt Mathilda giggles. 

“What?” Trixie has another bite of the risotto and portobellos, which really is tasty. As good as some of the cooks at the Manor House, even.

“Rice-a-Roni with cream sauce?” Aunt Mathilda stifles her laugh behind her napkin. “Forgive me, but a legion of chefs are throwing themselves on their Ginsus right about now.”

“I’ve had it before at Honey’s, I just never thought to ask about it. So what’s so special--”

“Is everything alright here, ladies? Ah, Mathilda! How lovely to see you again, and looking so well!” The gentleman who has just arrived at their table is long and lean, with a full head of silver-white hair and a superb mustache. He looks vaguely familiar, but Trixie has discovered that most of Southern California is populated by people who look like someone she’s seen on TV or in a movie, because they’re all so photogenic. “Are you ready to abandon that junkman and run away with me?”

“I’m sorry to break your heart, Jean-Francois, but I am quite content with my junkman. And may I introduce my dear young friend, Miss Trixie Belden?”

Jean-Francois eyes her. Apparently the remark about Rice-a-Roni has already reached him; Aunt Mathilda’s endorsement not withstanding, his demeanor is decidedly chilly. “Mademoiselle is a professional chef?” he inquires.

Being talked down to bugs her anyway, but being talked down to by a guy who shuns tuna melts for ritzy salads with weird ingredients is particularly annoying. She retaliates with some snobbery of her own. “You’re not familiar with Belden Farms Artisnal Preserves? They’re marmalades made of locally-sourced citrus from an heirloom recipe.”

“Oh?” Jean-Francois looks intrigued. “What kinds of marmalade?”

Trixie contrives to look nonchalant. She has a pantry full of the stuff; during her canning frenzy, she’d worked out several different formulas, which are pretty good, if she has to say so herself. “Of course, it’s traditionally made with oranges, but we have bitter or sweet. There’s also sweet and warm, with ginger--the ginger root is harvested within an hour of being grated into the fruit. And I’ve been developing a lemon-ginger--tangy with a bit of heat.” 

“Titus just loves the bitter orange!” Mathilda interjects. “I like the sweet variety, myself.”

“Fascinating. Enjoy your meal, ladies!” He bids them with a shade less frostiness.

“That was close.” Trixie stifles the giggle that finally emerges with her napkin. “What a creep!”

“That so-called creep happens to own more than a dozen restaurants around the world. This one is just a hobby, because he has a winter home in Rocky Beach. I hear the others are all much fancier.” She takes a sip of water. “His late wife was a friend of mine--I think he’s quite lonely without her. Try not to antagonize him. Please?”

“I’m sorry--” Trixie hangs her head and makes an effort to keep her voice down. “It’s really good--I just don’t think it’s twenty-six dollars worth of good. Not when I could go home, pick half the ingredients, pull the rest out of the fridge and the pantry and make it for four people for about six dollars.”

“With Rice-a-Roni? “Trixie has a feeling she’s never going to live this down! “Okay, I’ll change the subject--so, how do you really feel about that nephew of mine?”

If she wasn’t blushing before, she is now. 

“That’s what I thought.” Aunt Mathilda looks pleased. “I’m not getting any younger, and I’d like to have the peace of mind of knowing that he’s happy and not lonely.”

At the moment, Jupiter has the peace of mind of knowing that the roof is done, the plumbing complete, and the wall sections are raised and secured between the two areas. Hans and Konrad have unloaded the mattress, a matching dresser and nightstand and a lamp, and gone on their way. Mart helped carry in the bed-frame from the barn, and he and and Jupiter are putting it together while Ben moves Trixie’s things back in, putting them away as best he can. 

It’s late enough in the afternoon that a little more light would be welcome since the room faces east, but when he looks for somewhere to plug in the lamp, Jupiter can’t even find an outlet.

“She’s been running an extension cord under the door,” Ben ventures. “And since the switch to the overhead light is inside, most of the time she had that mechanic’s light hooked to one of those racks that came down.”

Jupe locates the cord, which he’d unplugged and coiled up, not realizing it was a permanent fixture. “Electricity,” he mutters. “Definitely on the to-do list, but not today.”

“Too bad there’s no closet,” Ben sighs. “I guess the dresses will have to go in her dresser.”

“There’s a beat-up wardrobe out in the barn. We’d have to clear it out first, it’s full of rakes and stuff.” Mart looks out at the angle of the sun. “If we hustle, we can get it in before it’s full dark.”

They do it in stages, including ascertaining sure they aren’t importing any hostile fauna with it. It takes the three of them to get its bulk inside with a scant half-inch to spare. It isn’t pretty, but it has a bar to hang her dresses on, a shelf above that (although Jupe doubts Trixie can even reach it) and ample room to stash her empty suitcase and the boxes with things Ben doesn’t know what to do with.

“I’m going to go soak my head,” Mart tells them with a groan. “Dinner tonight is going to be takeout.”

They’d also gotten two sets of folding shutters from the barn. Jupe wrestles with them for a while, trying to get them to come together more or less evenly. One set is more than an inch taller than the other, but he’s pleased when he manages to hang them so that they don’t drag on the floor.

“Do you happen to have a couple nails you can spare?” Ben asks diffidently.

“What for?” Because he’s leery of anyone hanging anything on any of his shiny new walls.

“There are a couple of pictures in one of the boxes Trixie’s mom sent, I thought I’d put them up in the powder room, it’s awfully empty in there.”

“As long as you hang them on the back wall or one of the studs, I’ve got something better--picture hooks!” Jupe unearths them from his toolbox and Ben grins.

“Definitely the back wall,” he agrees, “so they’ll be the first thing you see as you go in. Or if she doesn’t close the doors, they’ll be framed by the open doorway.”

Jupe leaves him to it, making sure the hinges of the shutters move freely. The ones on the left side are soft green, the other ones a mellow blue. Great patina--he wouldn’t change them, but Trixie may want them painted to match whatever color she paints the rest of the room….

He’s busy enough getting the doors aligned that he doesn’t immediately notice what Ben has accomplished with the rest of the room. When he does glance over, he’s surprised to see the ‘new’ bed transformed with neatly tucked sheets, plumped pillows and an old patchwork quilt. Even more unexpected is seeing the window transformed with a… “Is that a tablecloth?” He stares at the big rectangle of ecru lace.

“It was in one of the boxes, and I thought she might as well get some use out of it.”

Wondering how it’s secured without hardware, Jupe inspects it more closely. Small binder clips, he realizes, hooked over a row of rusted nails that held who-knew-what in the room’s past. “Ingenious!”

“Thanks!” Ben offers a shy grin.

Looking past him, he sees the pictures, and whistles. “Wow, talk about kitsch!” he says admiringly. “Those guys are right out of the ‘60’s!”

“Good guess! There’s a handwritten card taped to the back of one of them, it says Trixie’s grandmother got them as a wedding present in 1963. I think it’s sweet, her mom taking the time to add that.”

“I’ve seen a few similar pairs. It’s funny--the bullfighter and senorita are a lot more appropriate here than in upstate New York. Now, what else are we missing?”

“A towel bar,” Ben suggests.”Somewhere to hang a hand towel would be good.”

“Thanks for your hard work today,” Jupiter can’t fault Ben’s helpfulness--quite a turnaround from his bad-boy days! “You’ve had some really good ideas.”

“You’re welcome. Anything for Trixie. Daddy-o is so lucky, having a sister like her. He’s pretty amazing, too…their family must be awfully nice, don’t you think?”

It’s easy enough to nail the lathe he’d used to used to shim the doors up off the floor for hanging across two of the studs. “It’ll do til I can bring a proper towel rod over,” he justifies himself. “Trixie told me her maternal grandfather was a minister, which is why she and Mart are so careful about their language. When’s the last time you heard a real person say’ jeepers’?”

Ben has rummaged a plastic milk crate from somewhere and has it nestled under the sink, neatly holding rolls of bathroom tissue. “Just between us,” he confides, “Daddy-o is the only person I’ve ever met in my whole life who only says ‘fuck’ when he’s actually doing it.”

“I did not need to know that, and I’m going to try to forget I ever heard it,” Jupe chuckles. “Slide that to one side in case the sink leaks. I don’t think it will, but….” His phone rings. “My aunt--perfect timing!”

“She just drove off,” Aunt Mathilda informs him. “How did it go?”

“I think she’ll be pleasantly surprised. I’ll pay the overtime for Hans and Konrad myself--they really kicked butt. Things are still a little rough--nothing is painted, inside the bathroom it’s studs--but she has an actual wall between her and the side of the dome and there’s a new roof over the old one, so she’ll be decently insulated, winter and summer.”

“I want to see pictures!”

“You bet!” Jupe wraps up the call and leans through the kitchen door. Mart, obviously damp from the shower is sitting at the table staring at a takeout menu. “She’ll be here in about twenty minutes. Do you want to call about dinner? I’m buying--you guys worked like Clydesdales, thanks.”

Mart picks up his phone and holds up a finger for quiet. “Hey, old thing,” he says when Trixie answers. “We’re getting ready to order dinner--do you want anything? I was thinking Italian…do you want that combo you usually get? The ziti with meatballs? Okay. See you later.”

“Do I have time for a really quick shower?” Ben pleads. “I don’t want to miss seeing her see it.”

“Run!” Mart is mock-ferocious, and Ben chortles and dashes toward the dome’s big bathroom. 

“He reminds me of one of the Lost Boys, sometimes,” Mart remarks as the door closes behind him. “Or maybe just lost. I’ve never met any of his family, and I don’t think I want to.”

Tired, after a long day, Mart has dropped the pretensions to polysyllabic erudition, and Jupe ventures to inquire, “What’s up with ‘Daddy-o’, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“The first day we met, he started calling me ‘Daddy’--which is ridiculous, since he’s older than I am. But I like jazz, so we compromised with ‘Daddy-o’. I think,” Mart muses, “that since his dad kicked him out for being gay, he wants a lover he can call Daddy who won’t reject him.”

That’s surprisingly deep stuff. Not that Mart isn’t smart, Jupe reminds himself, but he tends to show off with his vocabulary--it’s easy to overlook how bright he really is with all that razzle-dazzle.

Anticipating Trixie’s return, Jupe spends a few minutes getting the requested pictures while everything is still pristine--too bad he never got any ‘Before’ pics!--and making notes of what still needs to be done. The electricity, for one, that will probably half a day. Painting, drywall inside the powder room…don’t forget a towel bar--oh, and a medicine cabinet, or at least a shelf and a mirror, lighting in there, too….

It’s been a long day for Trixie, although certainly less strenuous than her covert benefactors. After lunch, including a superbly decadent dessert, Aunt Mathilda dragged Trixie to her favorite hairdresser. Bekah is 6’1” and has an unusually deep voice--and a flair for hair!

Trixie always considered her hair less her crowning glory and more her crown of thorns. After of a lifetime of getting haircuts in the kitchen at home, and never using anything on it but shampoo and conditioner, Trixie is astonished by what a difference a tiny bit of “product” has made. It looks amazing! For the first time since she can remember, Trixie feels good about her hair. She isn’t sure she can replicate the look herself, but now that she knows it’s possible, she’s going to try. 

In addition to feeding her and fixing her hair, Aunt Mathilda presented her with a big bag from Wardrobe of Wonder--the big “W”s on either side of the center oval look like WOW from a distance--and inside is the sweet blue and white dress. Now all she needs is an excuse to get her hair done and wear the lovely dress to someplace fancy, maybe with Jupiter…?

She turns in at the driveway of Belden Farms, operating on autopilot, following the rutted track that circles around to the right of the dome to where she usually parks and goes in through the back door to her room.

That’s odd. Have her lights been on all day? Wait, is that some kind of mesh over the window?

As she gets out of the Bug, she can see it better--it looks like lace. Okay, it’s been a long day, because where would a lace curtain have even come from?

Bag in hand, she opens the door. “Surprise!”

Jupiter, Mart and Ben are all clustered in the open kitchen doorway, and she looks from them to the room, speechless--but only for a moment. 

Her own little bathroom! It’s perfectly okay that it’s only cold water, she assures them, shaking with happiness. It’s wonderful! The pictures--oh, gosh, those pictures hung in the guest room at Crabapple Farms since forever! And it’ll be so great not to have people (she eyes her brother) banging on the door in the morning when all she wants to do is brush her teeth! The shutters are sweet, and she wouldn’t change a thing about them.

Oh goodness--a closet! A real closet! Okay, so that could use a coat of paint--but it’s still swell! Jupe grins at her enthusiasm. She’s so delighted with everything--she sinks down onto the bed with an expression of utter bliss, and then she shrieks.

“A wall?! I have a wall?” She emits a piercing squeal and leaps up to touch it as if she can’t believe it’s real. “That’s so amazing! I can hang up my movie posters!”

“We can paint that, too,” Jupe offers, and is rewarded with a smile that dazes him. “We have a ton of paint at the yard.” There’s something different about her…he has to think about it, because whatever it is doesn’t make her look different---it only enhances her Trixie-ness. “Your hair looks very pretty,” he finally deduces.

“Thank you…oh my gosh, thank you all so much!” Then she’s hugging everyone.

“Happy birthday in advance,” Mart squeezes her. “We figured you wouldn’t mind getting your new room a little early.”

“You look gorgeous, hon,” Ben tells her as he wraps his arms around her. “If there’s anything you can’t find, it’s my fault--just ask, I’ll help you look!”

The doorbell rings. Mart goes to accept their dinner, Ben to set the table.

The little room is cozy in the lamplight. Although still rustic, the soft colors of the shutter-doors and the mellow old quilt give it a home-like atmosphere. Trixie smiles. It’s just her and Jupe, and this time, the hug lasts a lot longer. 

…


End file.
